Finding Strength
by Wolf Maid
Summary: RononTeyla. "She hates appearing weak" ... Ronon and Teyla share a bonding moment, and both find someone they can lean on.


AN: Ronon/Teyla. She hates appearing weak...

**...Finding Strength... **

She hates appearing weak.

She is the leader of her people, and they depend on her for so very much. She has to look strong, for them. For her father. For herself.

Even now, when most of her people are an ocean away, she never lets herself break down. Forces herself through events that frighten her, anger her, wear her down. She never complains. Never breaks. Her façade always stays strong.

At this point the doubts she could cry in front of anyone, even if she wanted to.

She remembers times when there were people she could lean on, people who wouldn't look at her differently if they saw.

John wouldn't, she knows, and she almost--almost--went to him when Aiden disappeared. But part of her knew how hard he was taking it, and knew that if she went to him, if he held her as she cried, he would bottle up his emotions and continue steadfast in the role of comforter.

John only lets himself appear weak in front of one person, and she knows and accepts that she isn't the one. He is most comfortable with the role of protector, but from the haunted look he still gets in his eyes she knows that sometimes he is the one that needs protecting.

And so she paces the halls at night, plasters on a fake smile when pressed, and not until Rodney shoots her an odd look and tells her to get some sleep does she acknowledge that she has a problem. A problem, yes, but there is no easy solution, no father or older brother to lean on.

And then he enters the scene. She never expected him to be anything more than an irritant--a loud, obnoxious irritant. He is opposite her in every way--easy to anger, tactless…uncivilized, as it were.

He's a fine physical specimen, granted, but sure nothing more…

…yet he has a certain grace to his movements…

…a certain charm to his ruggedness…

…pain in his past, much like her own…

…a raw need, a need that John has found in Liz, a need that her own heart mirrors…

She sits on the bench in the locker room, gathering energy to stumble to the shower. The mission had been long--and disastrous, and Rodney and John lay unconscious in the infirmary.

She is sitting up only with the rush of adrenaline pumping in her veins, trying vainly to erase the sound of Rodney's screams as he--_Rodney, brave Rodney-_-refused to give the information they so dearly wanted, the memory of John spitting his own blood into the guard's face--an act of defiance followed swiftly by retribution as his body spasmed in time to the electric shocks--

_  
_

_ "You can stop it with just a couple words!"_

Ronon's growl next to her as he fought against the realization that they could do

_ NOTHING_

Couldn't talk, couldn't look away, couldn't fight, couldn't 

_ HELP THEM_

A hot tear slips down her cheek-- 

--briefing, soon, have to be strong--

Seeing Liz's face, when she saw two of her family carried through the gate…but she stayed strong.

And if Liz could stay strong, she can.

Another tear drips down and she can feel the tension build in her chest and her throat.

And the door opens. By practice she stills the startled scream, by instinct she's on her feet, braced.

It's him, of course, no one else would be brash enough, brave enough.

The breeze caused by the door shakes her lithe figure. She closes her eyes.

"You should not be here," she breathes softly, though she can see the ache in his eyes, feel the answering ache in her heart, the primal

_NEED_

He crosses the floor in seconds, the overlooked grace, the unexpected tremble in his hands as he lifts them to touch her face, touch the wet trails left by _weakness._

Her face raises, her eyes meet his, full of longing and desperation and anger and fear, and he pulls her into his arms, holding her tightly, so tightly she lets go of the tension, the worry, the pretence, and relaxes into him, tears streaming freely, silent sobs shaking her body and absorbed into his. 

As some point they sink to the ground, his embrace complete, his head buried in her neck, her hair; the briefing forgotten, merely the mutual sharing of grief.

When the tears cease and the grief is spent for the moment, she lifts her face to him, feeling her hair wet on her neck, wisps of his coarser hair damp on her face. Rodney, John, Liz--they need them now.

And she…she feels strong once more.


End file.
